


The Penguin and the Policeman

by Gobblepottymouth (elm0)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-27 08:57:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6277990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elm0/pseuds/Gobblepottymouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written from that moment in S01E15 with the invitation. Jim gets drunk, slutty drunk, and finds himself fixating on one penguin in particular.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this, having not seen passed that moment in S01E15 with the invitation. I'm not watching past that until I've finished this, so sorry for any errors. I also wrote the first four chapters so consent wasn't a plot twist in chapter five. Rating will rise - you have been warned!
> 
> If anyone wants to beta read for this fic, that'd be great!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to comment if you catch any SPAG errors or typos! :)

He takes the invitation to his desk, and puts it down, rather than throwing it like he wants to. It’s screwed up; has been binned, retrieved, binned and retrieved again. It’s one of those moments where he forgets how the other officers distract themselves to watch him, criticize in not-low-enough voices, and de-construct him. They talk about him like he’s a strange, unusual species and every action is warped. He balls up the invitation, still unopened, in his hand.

“You know, sometimes you should take the hand of friendship when it’s offered to you, Jim.” Harvey says, feet up on the desk, reading through a file. “I know he’s a creep, but he’s a well-placed informant, useful. You could do worse than a man who asks for nothing more than kindness in return for his favours.”

“I don’t know what you mean. Penguin is a criminal, a snitch, neck deep in every bad thing that goes on around here.” 

Harvey raises a bushy eyebrow but chooses not to comment.

“The first time I saw him, he was beating some poor bastard with a baseball bat!” This doesn’t get the reaction Jim wants; his partner just impassively turns a page, takes a sip of coffee. Huffing, the blond man throws himself into his chair, his stomach full of lava, his heart racing fast. He hates that man. He has to hate that man.

The pile of paperwork in his in-tray keeps his furious attention for about fifteen minutes, but the silence and the furious pounding under his skin doesn’t abate. His blue eyes keep flicking back to that impertinent invitation, burnt like a scorch mark into his desk. Once, he catches himself reaching out just to squash it.

Harvey sighs. “This is how things work around here, Jim. There’s always a little bit of give and take. You know I’m behind you, I always am, but would it kill you to be less of a dick, less of a boy scout, just this once?”

“Right and wrong can’t be alleviated ‘just this once’. Why would I want to know a man like that?” But the lava in his stomach lets him know that that is not the problem. "I don't want to be draw in to the ambiguous shadow of this city, I live in the light."

"Well aren't you Mr. Perfect." Harvey sighs, dropping the file and standing up. “Come on, I think I’ve got us a lead.”

“Good.” Jim says, but on their way out, he can’t help overhearing:

“He waited for him, you know. Waited. Standing over there in his suit, looking like a puppy that needed a kick...” The officers laugh. 

“Gotham’s definitely got better criminals, he takes the prize for pathetic. What kind of a name is "The Penguin" anyway? What about 'the Ripper' or 'the Executioner'!”

“Look at Boy Scout, taking that envelope with him. Do you think he’s finally getting how things are done around here? Maybe he’s been to see the police commissioner...”

“Jim! Come on! I'm dying of old age out here!”

-

Later that night, Jim finds himself sitting across the table from Dr. Leslie Thompkins while she prattles on about work. Jim smiles mechanically, trying not to grind his teeth. This is what he should be doing, the normal thing to do; date, chat, flirt, fuck. It feels hollow. It’s felt like what he should be doing from the beginning but it's not what he wants. He’d been passionately in love with Barbara, besotted - at least, he’d felt like that at the beginning. Then she’d wanted to move home, back to Gotham. He’d been more reluctant, but his father had built his name here and there was a certain appeal in that.

Lee is smiling at him, and he makes agreeing noises into the space between her words. She goes on and he watches. There’s nothing wrong with her; she’s beautiful, witty, intelligent, engaging. He must be mad not to want her, but she’s not...right. Another face swims into his mind when he thinks of who is. Jim gulps at his whiskey until it's blocked out.

Lee reaches across the table, her eyes like shimmering pools. “You’re not alright tonight. What’s wrong?”

He looks up. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Jim, you didn’t even have wine! You went straight to whiskey, and you tell me nothing is wrong? You’ve barely said a thing all night.”

Jim reaches in his pocket for his wallet and feels the now-soft cardboard edge of the invitation brush his hand. “I’m sorry, I’ve got things on my mind. I don’t mean to- I didn’t want to cancel-”

“You just need time to think about some case or other?” Lee fills in easily. “I know how it is with policemen. You don’t have to stay, if you don’t want. You're not my first policeman.” But he does stay, to appease her, forcing himself to listen and respond, his teeth grinding with every smile and ever frequent refills as she talks her way through dessert, coffee. He takes his Irish, really Irish.

When he’s dropped her back to her apartment and watched her safely in, he abandons his car in the favour of walking. It’s raining, the grey night rain that seems to common in Gotham, but he’s beyond caring. That hot part of himself wants a fight, wants to hurt and win. He feels a kind of frenzy building up inside of him, but he won’t think about it. He won’t think about the stupid Penguin, or the invitation weighing heavily in his pocket. Instead, he stops him into a liquor store and keeps drinking. The whiskey is cheap, acrid, not what he usually drinks, but he sucks it down anyway.

His feet eventually find the way to Barbara’s flat. He still has a key, and she still isn’t back, but he’s not as bothered as he used to be.  
Since he retired, a hero, from the army, since he had joined the GCPD, there was only one person who had really understood, who had offered him friendship, advice, kindness without resentment or underhanded thought. But you could never trust a man like that. You would never know if you were the violin he was playing. He takes another long drink from the bottle, slides from the seat of the sofa to the floor.

The image of Cobblepot forces his way into his mind. His eyes, those pale blue eyes, bright like electricity. Their joyful, puppyish shine, lighting up to see him. His kindness, continual offers of friendship. The way that his warm eyes twisted with hurt as they’d talked today, the sheer, terrified loneliness in his eyes at he grabbed at his arm,begged him to reconsider. Jim knew loneliness like that, and it made him angry.

He gulps down more, looking at the invitation. He thinks of Oswald, sat alone in Fish’s red club. It was meant to be the night of his victory, and he’d be there alone, all because Jim was too pig-headed to agree. It was just a drink, a conversation, a smile. So, why was it so hard for him to go there, to be nice? Jim tips more liquor from the bottle into his throat, cleansed by the burn as it goes down. 

Fish’s Club was the place of Oswald’s subjugation, no matter what it was called in name now. That’s why it was difficult for Jim, he simply hated to see people poorly treated. It was true! He hated to see the way Fish treated Cobblepot, the obsequious smile that hid the anger, the shame, that burned in his eyes as he limped alongside her, trying to keep up.

But, how had Jim treated him? How did that compare? Big, arrogant policeman, he’d just waltzed in and used Cobblepot’s kindness, knowledge, intelligence; he’d drunk it all down, quietly flattered by those wide, adoring eyes. Even Harvey thought Jim had been a prick. He thought of the dejected lines of Oswald’s retreating back. If he didn’t apologize now, would he ever get the chance again? The thought of those eyes only seeing him with anger, hatred, lumping him in with all the other policemen and their corrupt, vile ways...No. He couldn’t have that. He wasn't like them, he would prove it.

He’d go. It was stupid, but he’d go and apologize, at least for being rude. And maybe if Penguin was angry, maybe they’d fight, he’d win and everything would be settled. He staggered to his feet, crashed into the side table in the hall on his way out, taking another long draw from the bottle as he went.


	2. Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim goes to make an apology [No dub-con].

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you spot any SPAG errors or typos, just drop me a comment and I'll fix it :)

He appears in the small hours, the black invitation scrunched in his hand; a long coated police officer striding through the Gotham rain. The warm lights of the club spill like egg yolk onto the sodden sidewalk, bright in a world of grey. The night’s entertainment is already winding down, just a few bus-boys and bouncers are left, packing the club up for the night.

Jim waves the card in his hand towards Gabe, a tall, meaty henchman he’s definitely seen before. “I want to see him. I’m late.”

“Up in the office.” Gabe looks at him hard, noting the long package under his arm, the whiskey bottle two thirds gone in his hand, the tarnished glimmer of the GCPD badge on his belt. Gabe glares a warning. “Up there.”

Jim hiccups, stumbling his way up the stairs to the office. He flings the door open to where the Penguin sits behind a wide walnut desk, jacket off, tie loose, shirtsleeves rolled back. Black, tousled hair. Jim frowns.

“Knock, I should have knocked.” Already this was not going as planned.

“Jim!” An eagerness edged with cold. His expression bursts with joy but snaps suddenly shut. Jim feels like he’s been slapped. Oswald stands and smooths down his clothes. “I’d offer you a drink, but you seem to have come prepared.”

“I want to talk.” Jim shuts the door with an unwanted slam and winces. Oswald squints at him. He’s never seen Jim so out of his own control before, never so drunk.

“You; Penguin, Cobblepot,” Those pale eyes narrow. “No, Oswald. Oswald. I-” the words almost fail him. Sobriety threatens to reassert itself when he even tries to consider why he’s there. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t treat you like this. I-”

“Jim, sit down before you fall,” Oswald limps around the desk and tries to guide Jim to a seat, but the police officer pushes him back.

“No, I got you this! It’s important, open it.” He sways by the desk, without the good sense to hold on. Oswald returns to the far side and sits down. The package is long and rectangular, wrapped neatly in black paper and a gauzy dark green bow. Drunk, it must have taken hours to wrap so immaculately - if he did it himself that is.

“A gift from my friend?” Suspicion mixes with surprise on his face, but there’s still a lingering coldness in his eyes. Jim wants to watch it melt away, yearns for the return of that bright puppy-like spark. Already, he misses it, misses the easy, ready smile.  
Stumbling backwards over nothing, the policeman falls back onto the leather sofa by the door. Oswald is still examining the package, devouring it with his eyes. Jim watches the pale fingers trace the tasteful green swirls on the paper. The bottle finds it’s way to his lips again, then again. 

“I want to be your friend. I hope I haven’t broken it.”

“Hadn’t I better open it and see?” Oswald smiles. There’s warmth there now, excitement. “Although I don’t know what I did to deserve it.”

His eyes twinkle. Carefully, he takes off the ribbon and peels off the paper, eases the brushed cardboard lid from the box. But he isn’t expecting what he sees. An umbrella, folded, neat, black.

“I already have an umbrella.” he indicates to it, leaning near the desk, never too far out of reach, its curved handle a reliable cane.

“You only have their umbrella. Not your own.”

Oswald blinks. Then he gives Jim that look, the look like a black hole, sucking all, even the tiniest details, in. “Fish, Maroni, Falcone; that umbrella was held over their heads. And you, Jim Gordon, my friend, bring me this present on my day of victory. Just when I’d begun to think our friendship was one-sided, a hopeless waste of time.”

Jim picks at the whiskey bottle's label. All the things he can’t say burst loud in his mind, screaming as one. Barbara’s betrayal, the formal, perfunctory flirtations with the medical examiner that really only stand to make him feel more alone. The way Penguin is there for him like nobody, not even Harvey, is. The way he feels a thrilling darkness stir in the pit of his stomach when Oswald comes into view, and how much he wants to surrender to it. He drowns them with another chug from the whiskey bottle. The thoughts don't stop.

“I think you’ve drunk enough tonight, Jim. Thank you for this, it is beautiful.” Jim didn’t see Oswald come close, but now the sofa sinks beside him, the smaller man has taken the bottle and a mouthful before putting it down by his feet, out of Jim's reach. He runs a hand over the straight handle, absent of its familiar curve, but comforting and heavy, carved in wood. There's a penguin etched into the wood.

“I have a second present for you,” Jim breaths, leaning conspiratorially closer.

“I think your apology was enough. I’m glad you-”

Jim kisses him soundly, squarely on the lips, catching Oswald’s waist and trying to push him backwards. Drunk, his kisses are a little messy, but passionate all the same. But Oswald isn’t drunk, and whiskey kisses aren’t yet his thing. He pushes back, refusing to submit to this interference. Jim gives way too easily, ready to roll onto his own back. Oswald smiles.

“Did you really mean what you just did?” He asks lightly. Holding his weight down on Jim’s shoulders, he leans back out of his lips keen reach. “Did you really mean it? Or are you just a slutty drunk?” An hour ago, he never would have dreamed of calling James Gordon a slutty drunk. His dreams were quite the reverse.

“I mean it. I want-” Apparently, even as drunk as he is, he still not drunk enough to say it.

“Come with me, Jim. I have rooms here.” Down the corridor, up another iron flight of stairs and along the passageway to a recently painted black door. It could have stood in Downing Street for the proud silver number on the door. The stench of paint still lingers in the hallway. “No, be careful. The paint might still be wet.”

Jim stops trying to push Oswald back against the door, and settles instead on rifling his hands and mouth over Oswald, looking for bits that he can squeeze, kiss or nip. Oswald doesn't stop him, just bats away his hands when they get too far. When he opens the door, he grabs Jim’s tie, and catching him off balance and yanks him inside. It not so much an apartment, as a small three-roomed suite, they had fallen into the comfortable sitting room. James leans in to kiss him, Oswald steps back.

“Uh-uh. If you’re going to kiss me, I want you to prove you mean it.”

“I - I mean it,” Jim repeats, his eyes fixed on Oswald but strangely out of focus. 

“Prove it. Go into the bedroom, take of all you clothes and climb into the bed.”

Jim grins and nods. Somehow, he’s managed to snag the whiskey bottle without Oswald noticing.

“Leave that here.” His tone brooks no argument. Jim grins, showing a flash of the naughty schoolboy he once must have been. “I’ll be in in five minutes.”

Jim leaves the bedroom door wide open. Oswald reseats himself deliberately with his back to the door, pouring himself a small glass of the whiskey and grimacing at the taste. In the silence, he sits, sipping the dreadful drink. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen. Still not a peep out of Jim. Oswald smiles, stands up, stretches.

Jim’s on the bed, sprawled out, completely nude. He’s clearly tried to arrange himself in some kind of enticing position, and succumbed to sleep. Just like Oswald planned. The man scoops another blanket from the ottoman and throws it over Jim’s naked body. Of course it isn’t right to use Jim’s drunkenness to get him naked, but he has the comforting thought that he knows and would always know that tonight, on this one isolated night of drunkenness, Jim really had wanted to kiss him. That knowledge lit a fire in his heart that will not easily go out.

“What are you smiling about?” A sluggish, sleepy voice asks. “You’re pretty when you smile.”  
Oswald can’t resist rumpling the police officer’s hair, messing that perfect parting up to match the rest of him. Now Jim has settled, he feels safe to perch on the bed beside his friend.

“I’m smiling because I know your secret now, James Gordon. I’ll give you a chance to prove me wrong.” He says, risking a caress to Jim’s face. The other man is so sleepy now, so pliant and docile. What the villains of Gotham would give to see Jim Gordon like this, his eyes smouldering with need. Oswald leans forward, as if to kiss Jim but stops just a whisper short. They both hear the wanton moan that betrays the policeman. Oswald grins, resting two cool fingers against Jim’s lips. 

“You, Mr Gordon, are a slutty, submissive drunk. You just want to be had.” 

Blue eyes open wide, half terrified, half mischievous. Both emotions are still overruled by sleep.

Oswald really does allow himself to kiss Jim this time, gently and just once, a brief brush of silken lips that’ll have to satisfy Oswald. The black haired man stands up smiling sadly and strokes a hand down Jim’s face. “I bet you don’t even remember feeling like this when you’re sober. You’ll find some water and a powerful aspirin on the bedside when you wake up.”

“Penguin… Oswald...don’t leave me, don’t leave me alone.” Sleepily from within the blankets, naked Jim is reaching out to him.

Penguin looks back, slowly shutting the door. He wishes he could freeze frame that moment, capture that Jim all for his own. Right now, it’s breaking his heart.

“Goodnight, Jim. I very much hope you still want to be my friend in the morning.”


	3. No Returns Policy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim wakes up after his drunken night, not ready to deal with the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you spot any errors, let me know so I can fix :) Enjoy! :D

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t expect you to still be here.” Jim Gordon staggers out of his bedroom, shirt on, but open, trousers not yet fastened. He’s spent most of the morning throwing up his hangover in the small ensuite bathroom, not really thinking about whose bathroom it was. His head is still stubbornly pounding.

Oswald Cobblepot’s mouth goes dry. “Good Afternoon,” he says cautiously, capping his pen. He’s been here all day, working instead of in his office. He never left the previous night, just returned to his office to work, then curled himself up on sofa there. He hadn’t wanted to chance anything happening to Jim if the wrong person found him their.

“Morning, uh. Afternoon.” The policeman greets the Penguin, pristine in another fine suit. There’s an awful stiffness in the air. The room is pressed in by the weight of everything the night before. There’s barely enough air to breath. 

 

“I’m sorry if you’ve heard, if you had to listen to me-” He cuts himself off and tries again. “Cob- Oswald. Thank you for the aspirin, it was very kind.”

“Anything for a friend,” Oswald mutters, and when Jim doesn’t flinch or contradict him, he indicates to a pot on the side. “There’s coffee if you’re feeling up to it.”

Jim nods. “If it’s better than the sludge at the precinct, I’ll manage.”

Oswald flashes a grin. They’ve both suffered that coffee. He’s sat at a small corner desk, once again busying himself with paperwork. Jim finds himself wondering how criminals and policemen end up with so many papers, so much to sign off on, but this time, the paperwork is not Oswald’s own. Instead, he’s methodically sorting the former desk of Fish Mooney herself, reading and annotating the margins of a pile of slimline red notebooks. Before, they were for her eyes alone.

“Still, you must have quite the hangover. Shall I call for breakfast for you? Lunch?”

“I think food might be a bit much just now.” His stomach still feels queasy. Jim wonders whether they are really allies. The tension in the room has changed somehow, it’s not hostile, not judgmental, just tentative, cautious. He takes a seat on the sofa near Oswald, but the man doesn’t turn around to him. “Do you mind if I stay a little longer? I don’t think I’m yet ready for the streets of Gotham. and, well.” He takes a deep gulp of air and continues falteringly. “I’m bad with talking, and my head hurts a lot, but I know we need to talk about last night. ”

Oswald raises an eyebrow, glancing his way. It’s hard not to sound incredulous. Perhaps he’s misunderstood. “You want to stay here?” 

Jim just looks nervous. He doesn’t want to deal with all the stuff waiting for him out there, and he really shouldn’t try and drive like this.

“A day with the company of one of this city’s finest...” Oswald smiles cautiously, turning the thought over in his mind. There’s warmth in his gaze now, amusement. A hint of his puppyish adoration is returning, but so very slowly. It’s like trying to tempt a wild animal to approach. “Shouldn’t you be out chasing criminals?”

Why, when I have one in front of me? Jim manages to catch himself before he says what he thinks and clears his throat. Some quiet, cautious feeling tells him that if he leaves now, this strange fragile peace will shatter and never return. So, he stays. “I have a day off. Am I alright just lying and feeling awful here for a bit?”

Oswald glances again, smiles and continues working. This is what friends do, of course, relax in each other’s company, maybe even let their guards down. Jim spreads himself out on the sofa, and after a few minutes falls into a lazy doze. Oswald clicks on the radio, music uninterrupted by news; neither of them want that today. It’s a long time before either of them speak. 

“Why did you come here last night?” The sun is streaming through the windows is climbing up the carpet to warm Jim’s legs. Oswald has moved to an armchair, and is watching Jim intently. His voice has that cold, businesslike edge to it again, his gaze disconcerting.

Jim feels his throat close and sits up, pulling his shirt closed. He’s always been brave. He can either be honest, or start lying again and undo all of last night’s hard work. His shoulders jerk in a helpless shrug. “There’s several answers, all true. The simplest is that you invited me,.” He knows the answer is woefully insufficient. “I want to tell you, to trust you, but-” You’re always so open with your feelings, and I’m not like that. And this is a mistake.

The policeman rubs a hand over his face, slumping back, trying to look less awful than he feels. He wants to apologize, but when he starts talking that’s not what he says. “Flass came to me, begging, literally beginning on his knees in some shitty, dirty alleyway, begging for the safety of his wife and children, his life. I don’t know what you did, but no one was supposed to get hurt-”

“You want to talk about work? Alright.” Oswald sighs, lacing his fingers together and leaning back in his chair. He looks disappointed. “I do regret not finding that information for you personally. I sent one of my men under strict instructions, but I went and checked on them myself when I found out those instructions had not been obeyed. There was no real damage. I think Gabe was just a little vivid in his descriptions of what would happen if they didn’t cooperate.”

Jim frowns, more to himself than Oswald. Why is he here? He has no intention of getting into the bed with the mob, and yet he remains. Sober, Jim knows he has a decision he wants to make, but doesn’t want to be accountable for making it. Just once, he wants to make a bad decision. 

“Why did you bring me an umbrella? Why a gift at all?” Oswald’s curious, gentle voice pushes into his musings.

Jim’s frown deepens. There’s more than one reason for this too. “I was rude, I’ve always been rude to you, and it was important day. I should have shown more respect to that if nothing else. You’ve always been so kind, and yet, the way everyone treats you.. That umbrella, I was drunk but I - I wanted you to know - I do respect you, Os, I do, I just. I can’t get over what you do. Even being here like this, it’s playing with fire. It’s more than playing with fire, it’s-”

“Why, Jim, you’ve gone pink! You don’t have to be embarrassed, we’re all friends here, aren’t we?” There’s a fire kindling in Oswald’s stomach. He’s quite delighted with the words stumbling from his friend’s mouth. The air feels hot now. He’s so far away from the world he plans in, it feels like a dream. Jim looks away and continues, speaking now to a patch of wall.

“It turned out I needed a lot more Dutch courage than I thought to come and say that to you. I didn’t mean to turn up here drunk, I just-” It was important. I felt like I would lose you otherwise. “I was already drunk when I decided to come.”

A well of silence forms between them as Jim’s words fade out. Oswald doesn’t break it, just watches. Today has gone wrong somewhere critical, deep in its mechanism. Things have changed. He’s sure both of them can feel it, the way the atmosphere has changed between them. The Penguin’s not getting any work done, but as long as Jim’s here, the day is written off. He’s given his orders, they should be obeyed.

Jim looks at him, mortified, unable to stop himself talking now he’s begun/. “I- I have this horrifying ability to remember what I do, even when I’m as pissed as I can get. I remember being…”Horny. Slutty. Throwing myself at you. Grabbing your arse. ”I’m not usually so strongly like that when I’m drunk, but I’m also not ashamed. Thank you for not taking advantage of it.Of me.”

Yet. They think the word in unison. It forms in the air between them, as deadly as nightshade and having nothing at all to do with sex.

“I wouldn’t take advantage of a drunk, Jim. Or of you. That’s not what friends do, is it? It’s not what people do.”

“Are we friends?”

“I am your friend, Jim, I can only hope that you want to be mine.”

Jim really wants to believe him. Oswald wants to believe it too, he doesn’t know if he’s speaking the truth or just a valiant wish. The silence hangs between them again. Jim feels like he’s teetering on a cliff edge and really wants to dive in. There’s a reckless wind pushing at his back. Just once, he wants to make a bad decision.

“I meant it you know, kissing you. But I was kissing you, Oswald, not the Penguin. Not the mob. I won’t get into bed with the mob.”

Oswald shifts closer, scooting to the edge of his seat. The question burns in his chest. This is so far passed anything he ever imagined happening. He’d been prepared to just follow, begging for table scraps of affection, then there was the rage and rejection of last night. And now...

“But...do you...would you…”

Jim feels the world beneath his feet vanish. He’s lost, so dizzyingly lost, and for once he really doesn’t want to care. Their eyes lock.

“Yes.”

It’s barely a hiss but it works. Like magnets, they both move to vanish the space between them. Standing, their mouths clash, their arms cling to each other, grabbing, squeezing tight. When they run out of breath, Oswald pulls back.

“Are you sure you’ve sobered up enough for this? You’re not still drunk?” 

Jim’s eyes gleam. “Well, I shouldn’t drive but I’m not drunk. I want you, Oswald Cobblepot. I want you now.”

More kissing, more thrusting, impatient tongues. The taller man skillfully devours his mouth, holding him inescapably tight. 

“I’ve not done this much before,” Oswald breaths, the secret burning in his mouth. “But, I want to. I- I really like you, Jim.” 

Again, that honesty. That heartbreaking, puppylike hope. It kills Jim to hear it. Their bodies become a battleground, a war of mouths and hands. Victims of the fight, their clothes fall away: first Oswald’s tie; Jim’s undone shirt is pushed back off his shoulders while hardness straining in his half fastened trousers, working itself free. It’s mad, a madness of passion, both men pushing at the vulnerability neither is willing to expose.

Jim lifts the smaller man easily, pushing him back and pinning him against the wall, catching his hands above his head. With nowhere else to go, Oswald’s legs wrap Jim’s hips and draw their hardnesses close as Jim bites into his neck. They groan as one. Fumbling fingers manage the buttons of the waistcoat, the shirt, half-undone, is ripped with a frustrated growl. Buttons scatter to the floor. A pinched nipple makes Oswald arch up into his touch, gasping. Jim falls mercilessly upon him then, tearing each wanton cry from Oswald with his teeth.

Oswald whimpers. “Please, Jim, I-”

He’s not sure what he’s asking For once not planning, instinct in full control. His hips buck. Jim grins,reaching into his trousers to grasp the bulge he finds there and pumps it once, twice, before Oswald rolls, pushing himself away from the wall, and rolling Jim onto it. He slides down the other man’s body and stands back a fragment. Looking at Jim, he can see the same uncertainty he feels reflected in those blue eyes. If he thinks about it too much, the moment will break.

“Come with me.” He leads Jim back to the bedroom, thankful the man thought to open a window. More cautiously now, they divest each other of the rest of their clothes. Naked before each other, they feel strangely, unitedly vulnerable. Jim growls, catching Oswald in a kiss and scooping him up and throwing him down on the bed. Immediately, he covers the slighter form with his own. Oswald pushes up into him and their mouths once again collide, warring tongues battling for dominance.

Jim trails slow exploratory kisses down Oswald’s body, stopping to lavish a tongue around his belly button and lick patterns into the hollows of his hips. The smaller man bucks, his hands weaving into Jim’s hair. The policeman grins, nuzzling the soft black hair around Oswald’s hard cock. Jim takes it in his hand, stroking it slowly. This is definitely not the first time he’s done this, he has been in the army afterall. Oswald moans impatiently.

Without further ado, Jim slides Oswald’s shaft into the heat of his mouth. The lusty mewl he gets in response shoots straight to his groin. Oswald thrusts up helplessly, balling his fists in the smooth black sheets. The darkness makes his pale skin glow in comparison and Jim watches hungrily as every skilled flick of his tongue draws more beautiful reactions from the other man.

Oswald pulls up his knees, opening up all of himself to Jim. “Jim, please...”

Jim removes his mouth from Oswald’s cock long enough to thoroughly wet his fingers and bite into those soft lily-white thighs. He teases around Oswald’s entrance until the man is bucking hungrily, lustily thrusting up into Jim’s mouth, then trying desperately to grind back onto Jim’s teasing hand. 

“You ...bastard…” Oswald gasps. He’s rewarded by a single finger pushing suddenly to the hilt. His throaty moan is soaked in pleasure, sprinkled with pain. “Ah!”

Jim lets Oswald buck against his hand, driving himself needily back against that finger. Jim watches, blue eyes devouring the sight of it.

“God, you’re beautiful. Do you have any-”

“Box, under bed.” Oswald points. Lube isn’t the only thing in there, and Jim mentally earmarks it for further examination. He squeezes the cold substance onto his moving finger, warming it inside Oswald before, gently easing the second prepared finger beside the first. He’s so tight, Jim wouldn’t be surprised if this was the first time, or if not, the first time in a long time. It’s been a while for him too, after the army there was Barbara, but she wasn’t without an adventurous side. Feeling the tension rise in Oswald’s body, Jim withdraws his hand and his mouth. 

“Do you want to-”

“Yes.”Oswald is panting. In the nightstand, there are condoms, prelubed. Jim sits back on his heels and rolls the thin latex over his cock. Oswald draws his legs up, and Jim shakes some lubricant onto his cock.

“Wait, stop. If we do this, they’ll be no going back. Ever.” Oswald’s breath catches in his throat. He never does anything without a plan, anything, and this, this is beyond unexpected. Even splayed out on his back, his legs open and his most intimate parts exposed, he’s still thinking. He feels lost. It’s all very fast.

Jim stills. “I know.” He whispers. “Perhaps instead of this,” he runs a slim, gentle finger over Oswald’s entrance, “we should settle for just this.” He lets himself fall towards the other man, catching himself just in time and grinding their hips together once. “Is that okay? Or we can stop completely?” It nearly kills him to say it, but he does and he means it. He’s terrified the atmosphere might change.

“No,” This time is Oswald’s hand around Jim’s cock, stripping off the condom and stealing the lubricant from Jim’s finger. Both cocks are already wet with precome, but that cool hand holding them both together, sliding up and down feels amazing. “I don’t want to stop, I just-” He looks up at Jim, pale eyes wide and open. “You need to know. I don’t want to lose myself to you, Jim. Ever. I’ll never be good like you, I’ll always live in shadows. It’s my world.”

For a minute, Jim forgets to breath. Those eyes, so trusting, so vulnerable. The words, so much a reflection of Jim’s heart. Oswald gets it, he understands, but no matter how wrong it is, how much the world just won’t understand, this feels so very right. Oswald’s hand sets a gentle, almost painstaking rhythm make his hips beg to buck and writhe. Jim groans. He wants this, he wants this so much. 

“I won’t compromise myself for you either,” The blond man pulls back slightly. “I’m going to save this city, turn it back to somewhere that people have faith in their public servants and feel safe to live.”

Neither of them speak for a moment, just look into each other’s eyes, naked chests heaving.

“Is there a reason why the lives of the Penguin and the Policeman have to clash with the private lives of Jim Gordon and Oswald Cobblepot? Do we always have to be opposed, or can we exist as friend outside of..?” Oswald trails off.

“I hope we can exist as more than friends,” Jim says. “We won’t know until we try.” 

Oswald nods. They understand each other. Their mouth meet again, slower this time, as if is the first true taste of each other. They’ve already come to far to go back, the Policeman and the Penguin will just have to look away while Jim and Oswald have their fun.

Relaxing in their post-coital haze, Jim’s arm draped lazily over Oswald’s belly, they doze. Someone’s phone rings.

“Mine,” Oswald mutters, sitting up. 

“Yours.” Jim burrows his face deeper in the warmth of the pillows.

Oswald limps off into the other room, comes back with two phones. His is silent. He throws the other one onto the bed. “Yours.”

Jim groans. The phone stops ringing, then starts again. He brings it to his ear without looking at the screen.

“Harvey, I don’t care what it is, I’m not getting out of bed for -”

“It’s not Harvey,” Lee’s voice says. She sounds bright, alert, annoying. “It’s Lee. I just wanted to check you got home okay. Your car is still outside my flat, so...”

“I got home fine, thanks for...” caring? Checking up on me? Oswald turns his back on them, limbing about to gather his clothes. Jim tries to signal to him that it's not what it seems.

“Excellent. Come let me in, I’m outside. I brought you a hangover cure.” Her voice turns rich and warm. On the other side of the room, Oswald stiffens.

“Ah, I mean, I’m not home right now, but I did-”

“Whose bed are you in, if you’re not your flat?” Her voice snaps like a bear trap out of the undergrowth.

“Uh,” shit shit shit. His heart pounds. “The clocktower. I guess I was drunk, my feet found their way, uh, here.”

“You mean, to Barbara Kean’s apartment. Where you going to say home? Your feet found their way home?” Lee's voice is ice-cold, razor sharp.

“Uh-”

His answer is non-answer enough. She slams down the phone. Oswald is looking at him with that careful, all-encompassing stare.

“I’ll talk to her when I leave here.” Jim sighs, moving across the bed towards Oswald. “I only dropped her back last night, nothing - we've not-" He catches himself. "It's something I've needed to do for a while. I don’t want this to just be a one time thing.”

Oswald stands up hesitantly, limps closer to the bed, still with that mind-reading stare. “You’re certain?”

“I’m certain.” It’s Jim’s turn to frown. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? With your leg, I’m sorry, I forgot.”

“It’s a bit twingey, but nothing I didn’t want to do. I'll tell you if I need something.” Oswald reassures with a long kiss. He still feels like pinching himself. “Now, why don't you put some clothes on. You can buy me lunch to make up for not buying me dinner first.”

Jim grins. There's definitely no going back now.


End file.
